


Coda

by SilentAuror



Series: A Satisfactory Arrangement [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV: John Watson, Porn, Porn With Feels, Romance, because this contains really a lot of porn, extremely porny, or at work, probably do not read in public, so much porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3400307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to <i>A Satisfactory Arrangement</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Coda

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Кода](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688122) by [fridaypm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fridaypm/pseuds/fridaypm), [soames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soames/pseuds/soames)



**Coda**

 

John has just barely got the door shut behind them when Sherlock seizes him by the shoulders and spins him around to pin up against the wall just inside the flat, his thighs and hips crowding up against him, his mouth on John’s again. The cab ride from the restaurant was only ten minutes, but it was a long ten minutes, spent with their fingers tightly entwined, trying to restrain themselves from kissing or else it would have turned into full-on sex in the backseat within seconds. John is hard in his jeans and can feel the insistent bulge in Sherlock’s trousers against himself. He is absolutely powerless to resist this and isn’t trying, his mouth biting at Sherlock’s hungrily, their tongues halfway down each other’s throats, and Sherlock’s hands are all over him, yanking the shirt out of his jeans and pulling his arse off the wall to bring their bodies even more tightly together. They’re kissing noisily, the sounds of their mouths and voices echoing in the still corridor at the foot of the stairs.

John thinks briefly of Mrs Hudson and finally manages to stop kissing Sherlock – it’s difficult; it’s so addictive – to say, interrupting himself all the while, “Come on – let’s go – upstairs – ” 

Sherlock makes a sound of agreement directly into his mouth. He lowers his hands from John’s arse to just below it and the next thing John knows, Sherlock is picking him up. 

Startled, John instinctively gets his legs around Sherlock’s waist and holds on. “Sher – ! What – ”

“Shut up,” Sherlock says against his lips. “I can’t stand the thought of not touching you for the entire length of the staircase. Kiss me.”

John would laugh but it’s swallowed in a moan, his mouth on Sherlock’s again almost before the words have left his lips. He thinks he’s probably too heavy for this, but Sherlock has always been stronger than he looks, and he seems to be having no trouble whatsoever as he makes blindly for the stairs. At this point John doesn’t even care if they fall down them again, as long as he doesn’t have to move his body away from Sherlock’s at any point. He’s absolutely dizzy with a heady mixture of emotion, sheer lust, and the heat of the moment itself and it’s frankly fantastic. _How_ did he not see this from the start, that he was in this deep? How was convincing himself all along that he was just enjoying an explicitly sexual relationship with the person he cares about more than anyone else alive, and miss that there was infinitely more to it than that? He loves Sherlock. He’s loved him for ages and ages, and not just as a friend – what utter rot. No – he definitely, definitely loves Sherlock with all his might and the realisation of just how much is clanging through his head like cymbals crashing. It’s pouring out of every pore of his body, and his heart is aching at the seams with the overwhelming amount of what he feels for Sherlock in a high unparalleled by anything Sherlock ever could have used in his misguided youth. It’s the best thing in the world, full stop.

They get to the top of the stairs and Sherlock doesn’t put him down, yanking the door of the flat open and shutting it with his back. Still carrying John, he staggers down the corridor to his bedroom, his mouth still on John’s. He lets John down at last, arms wrapped almost suffocatingly around John’s back, as John’s are around him. After a long moment, he puts his hands on John’s forehead, pushing his fingers into John’s hair, thumbs pressing into his eyebrows, gazing into his face, his eyes so intense that John feels like he could practically combust just from the look alone. “We need to have sex right now,” he says, his voice raw with everything that John is feeling, himself. “Real sex. I don’t care how. But we _need_ to.”

“Agreed,” John says, flushed and breathless. “Whatever you want. Anything. Absolutely anything.”

“You choose,” Sherlock tells him, his eyes unblinking and incredibly blue around the dark pools of his pupils. 

“I think _you_ should choose,” John counters, stroking Sherlock’s back and sides, unable to stop touching him even for a second. “We’ve both only experienced it one way before – though only with women for me, obviously, and not that way. I want this to be whatever you most want. Honestly. I’m completely open.”

Sherlock’s lips fall open, exhaling, and John can feel his pulse beating rapidly through both their chests. “Since I barely remember that and didn’t like it then, I don’t know what I would prefer,” he says, his eyes very honest and somehow their sheer openness makes John’s chest ache. “I’m content to follow your lead here. Just as long as our bodies are completely connected. I _need_ that, John. I can’t bear not being joined like that for an hour longer. Please.” 

John’s head is already nodding itself. “Yeah,” he says, looking from Sherlock’s lips to his eyes. “Of course. I just – I don’t know how we decide this.”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Sherlock repeats, impatient. “Just – ”

“Tell you what,” John interrupts, wanting to curb the beginnings of absolute desperation in Sherlock’s voice. “Let’s get our clothes off and just – start, and see where it goes, all right? All that matters to me is that we’re together and doing this and I don’t care how, either. It’s utterly unimportant to me. So let’s get undressed. Okay?” 

Sherlock nods, his eyes not leaving John’s the intensity still burning a hole through his brain. He lets go of John with everything but his eyes and rapidly sheds all of his clothes on the spot, fingers tangling with John’s as he attempts to strip John at the same time. Naked, they half pull and half push each other to the bed, stumbling into it, Sherlock shoving the blankets aside. They’re kissing again and rolling over and over together, cocks fighting together, legs twisting around each other, trying to touch as much of each other as physically possible at all times. John’s heart is pounding, his breath already short, and he feels more helplessly, stupidly in love than he ever has in his life and it’s absolutely amazing, wonderful, fucking _brilliant_. Sherlock’s fingers are all but tearing the skin from his body, half mad with need. He’s not bothering to check his moans as they thrust against each other for once, exhaling vocally. He turns them over again so that he’s above John and says, panting, “It’s so much better this way. So much – I didn’t know it could – I – ”

It’s so unlike Sherlock to get so inarticulate that John feels his throat tightening and he reaches up to touch Sherlock’s face, and suddenly he knows what they should do. It will make Sherlock feel that he really has staked a firm claim, and John is also a bit afraid of reminding Sherlock of that first, terrible time. Even if he’s completely different than whoever it was who – it’s unbearable to think of, someone doing that to Sherlock. And this way Sherlock will absolutely know how much he means it. Let him feel that he really does own John, to infinity and back. It’s how John has felt in the past, after the first time being inside someone like that. “I know,” he agrees, his voice rough and softer than he meant it to come out. “It’s the best thing in the world, when you love the other person and know they love you. And – I’ve decided: I want you to be inside me. This first time, at least. Can we do that?” 

Sherlock blinks, John’s hand still cupping his face. “You want that?” he repeats, sounding uncertain. 

John wants to get rid of the uncertainty once and for all. “I do,” he says firmly. “You know I love it when you’ve got your fingers in me, and to be honest, I had already thought more than once about maybe suggesting we give this a try. I just thought that maybe it would be too – ”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “But now – ”

“Now it’s exactly what we need,” John tells him. He stretches up and kisses Sherlock’s mouth again. “So get the lube and get your fingers in me,” he murmurs against his lips after, letting his voice drift into suggestive territory. 

He feels Sherlock’s cock twitch against his as he says this, and Sherlock exhales hard and reaches under the pillow under John’s head where he’s taken to keeping the lube. He uncaps it with his teeth and spits the cap across the room somewhere, then inches down John’s torso and puts his mouth on John’s aching cock. His mouth was positively made for sucking cock, John thinks, groaning as Sherlock starts in on his third blow job of the day. He wastes no time in pushing a finger into John’s arse, stretching it gently, then adding a second finger. John has his legs wound around Sherlock’s shoulders to give him access to his arse and Sherlock is taking full advantage of the fact, sucking John’s balls into his mouth and licking against that sensitive place just behind them. John’s toes are curling already. 

“Okay!” he gasps out after another minute or two of this. “That’s good – I’m ready, I think!” 

Sherlock gives his cock another long lick from root to tip and says, as though reluctant to have to take his mouth from it long enough to speak, “Are you sure?” 

“I think so,” John says again. “I mean, I’ve never – so I don’t really know, but as long as you go slowly, I think it should be okay.”

“All right.” Sherlock moves back up John’s body, keeping John’s legs over his shoulders. He positions himself with his hand, looking into John’s eyes the entire while. He pushes forward a little, then presses forward, just enough so that the head is inside. 

It’s tighter than John was even expecting. Sherlock’s cock is large, both thick and long, but he suspects that once the head is inside, everything else will be better. He makes himself breathe deeply, aware that Sherlock is watching his every reaction with intense scrutiny, on guard for the first signal of pain. John refuses to let him see it. He wills himself to relax and opens his eyes again. “Okay,” he says after a moment, his voice a bit strained. 

“You’re sure?” Sherlock asks again, sounding anything but, himself. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“I think that the first time, it just will, a bit,” John admits. He puts his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “Kiss me, and keep going,” he commands. 

Sherlock does as he’s told, slowly, slowly pushing into John as they kiss, and for a moment or two, the discomfort is intense, though it’s offset by how very much John wants this. Once Sherlock is fully seated within him, he stops moving, though he doesn’t break off the kiss. For a long moment they just lie still, kissing, Sherlock buried inside him. It feels indescribable, practically spiritual in a way that John has virtually never felt before. He has never in his life had another person inside him this way and the feeling is incomparable. They are _one_ , belonging wholly to each other in a way that no one and nothing could ever threaten, and John feels it in every pore of his body and every fibre and cell of his heart. And when Sherlock lifts his face, John can see the exact same thought on his face as though the words are spelled out across his forehead. Their eyes are locked, Sherlock exhaling through trembling lips. “I’ve – never felt anything like what – I feel now,” he says with difficulty and obvious emotion. “I’m _in_ you. I’ve _never_ – ” He stops. 

John puts his hand on Sherlock’s face again. “I know,” he says, almost fiercely. “I feel the same way. Exactly the same. You’re inside me. Joined to me. _Part_ of me.”

“I – love – ”

“I know,” John says again, his eyes going to Sherlock’s lips again. “I love you, too.”

Sherlock makes a sound not unlike distress and puts his mouth on John’s again, desperate and hungry, and the feeling of tightness begins to ease. John rubs his hands over Sherlock’s sides, which is about all he can reach with his legs where they are, and Sherlock takes the hint and begins to move, very carefully, just sliding back and forth an inch or so, letting John’s body get used to it. It starts feeling rather good, and John breaks off the kiss to make an affirmative sound and Sherlock starts to move more. Soon he’s thrusting gently, his face pained, possibly with the effort of holding back. John has realised retroactively that even more preparation time would have been better, but they were both so hungry for it, and honestly, it doesn’t matter. He wanted this as badly as Sherlock, emotionally and physically in equal parts. He resolves that when Sherlock bottoms for the first time, possibly later tonight, even, he will make absolutely certain that Sherlock is relaxed and open before they start. 

Regardless, though, this is _good_. Really good. Sherlock is breathing too hard to kiss him now, their eyes still on nothing but each other, and John hears himself starting to moan. Sherlock’s cock feels absolutely enormous within him, but that’s becoming a good thing again. His own erection has filled out again, lying flat against his belly, Sherlock’s body rubbing it as he thrusts into him. John grips his sides and groans as Sherlock’s cock starts nudging into his prostate. “Yes – God – yes!” The words break over his lips before he’s even thought about them and Sherlock starts going harder, moaning himself, his voice breaking and grating in his throat. His hips are slapping against the back of John’s thighs now and all John can think about is the intensity of the pleasure twisting itself into knots in his body, his prostate going off like fireworks. “Harder!” he orders – no, begs – and Sherlock goes absolutely wild, bucking into him forcefully, thrusting faster and harder than John knew it was possible to do without breaking the other person, but any less would leaving him screaming in frustration because he needs it this hard and it feels good, good, _good_ – he’s sucking in oxygen, his lungs burning, and then his abdomen clenches and he feels his arse gripping and spasming around Sherlock’s cock as he comes so hard he blacks out for a second, his vision on fire, and Sherlock gives a sharp cry and John feels his cock jerk within him and then comes the warm flood as Sherlock’s body freezes against his for a long second. Then there’s another hard, lingering thrust, and then a third, and Sherlock’s breath releases in another gusting moan. He collapses against John, getting his legs down off his shoulders first. They sprawl limply around Sherlock’s rib cage, John’s entire body weak and spent. 

For several long minutes they just lie there, panting, their chests heaving, John’s vision still clearing of spots, and he gets his arms around Sherlock’s back and holds him to himself and thinks dizzily and he has never in all his life felt this close to another person, this fused into one being. Sherlock’s breath is rasping in his ear and John thinks that he must feel stunned and overwhelmed by the entire wash of emotions that’s enveloping them both. “You okay?” he asks, when he can speak. 

For a moment Sherlock doesn’t answer, but then he nods and makes a muffled affirmative sound. When he lifts his head, John isn’t surprised to see moisture in his eyes, and although he’s trying to blink it away, he isn’t hiding it. “ _You_ ,” he says, with considerable feeling, and then buries his face where John’s shoulder meets his neck, his arms digging under John’s back to hold him. 

He’s still inside John, though John can feel his cock softening. If they move it will probably slip out with a wash of come, too, and he isn’t ready for that, to not have Sherlock within him, joined to him. He holds Sherlock’s head with both hands and pulls it up so that he can kiss him again. Sherlock complies easily, his hips pushing instinctively further into John again, as though he isn’t ready for it to be over quite yet, either. They lie there that way for a long, lazy stretch of time, until they shift and Sherlock’s cock finally slips out of him. They rearrange themselves then, turning sideways face-to-face, arms and legs still twined around each other. “That,” John tells him with feeling, “was absolutely incredible. Indescribable.”

Sherlock smiles and doesn’t try to refute it. “It was for me, too. I’ve – obviously – never experienced anything like that in my life. I didn’t know. I really didn’t know it would be like that.”

“I’ve never felt it as intensely, either,” John tells him, his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. “I mean that.”

Sherlock’s eyes search his. “But you’ve loved other people,” he says, not quite objecting. “Lots of them.”

“Listen to me,” John says, a bit intensely, because he needs Sherlock to believe this. “There has never been anyone in my life like you. No one has ever been as important to me as you. You are _it_ , you’re the one. This is the last stop. I have never and I will never love anyone as much as I love you. Got that?” 

Sherlock blinks, blinks again. He swallows, then clears his throat, and blinks some more. He’s clearly trying to process this and formulate a response but can’t quite seem to get there. John’s heart swells to the bursting point, watching this, and finally he takes pity on Sherlock. 

“My God,” he says softly, smiling. “I’ve broken you.”

Sherlock lets out a startled laugh then, blinking harder than ever. “Shut up,” he says roughly, letting go of John to touch his left eye. “I just – ”

“I know,” John says gently. “If it’s any consolation, I feel like my chest is about to explode over here.”

Sherlock laughs again and gets himself twisted all the way around John, his face hidden over John’s shoulder, holding him as tightly as possible. “It’s a lot to process,” he admits, his voice not quite even. “I’ve just never – felt like this. I don’t quite know what to do with it all.”

John’s eyes are closed but he smiles, knowing that Sherlock can’t see it. “You’ll figure it out,” he promises. “ _We’ll_ figure it out.”

They stay that way, holding each other and John feels like he’s drowning in the pool of feeling welling between them and it’s the best thing he’s ever felt in his life. “Are you falling asleep?” Sherlock asks after awhile, his own voice both rough and drowsy. 

“No,” John says, though his eyes are closed. “I’m just – enjoying this.” 

“Don’t go to sleep. I want to spend all night doing this,” Sherlock says. He finally releases John, pulling back so that he can see John’s face. “Can we do that?” 

John smiles. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, his voice dark and full of promise. 

“This is all I want to do for the rest of my life,” Sherlock tells him. “Screw the work. Let’s just stay in bed forever.”

John laughs, completely amused and not even trying to hide his delight at seeing Sherlock so completely reduced by this. “I love that idea,” says, and decides not to tell Sherlock that they’d both get bored. Sherlock obviously knows and it’s fun to pretend. He props himself up on one arm, looking down at Sherlock, still smiling. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s smooth, flat belly, about to say something, but then Sherlock’s stomach growls loudly and John completely forgets whatever it was he was going to say. “You never had dinner,” he remembers. “You must be starving – particularly after that!” 

Sherlock looks down at his abdomen, frowning. “I suppose I am, a bit,” he says, as though disgruntled by this discovery. 

“Let’s order in,” John decides. “I actually didn’t eat that much at dinner, and – ”

“No, I know,” Sherlock agrees, his brows knitting together. “I wondered why. It’s not like you to order a _salad_ , even a meal-sized one with meat in it.” 

John smiles at him and lowers his mouth to hover over Sherlock’s. “I didn’t have much of an appetite without you,” he says, and Sherlock makes a distinctly satisfied sound. The kiss is slow and languorous but not without heat, and John’s body begins to prickle anew. God, Sherlock is more addictive than any drug, he thinks again, revelling in the kiss with hedonistic abandon. Sherlock is lifting up and pressing into him, their legs reaching for each other and twisting together. John feels full to the brim, so happy he feels it must be leaking out of him. Though possibly, he reflects more prosaically a few minutes later, perhaps that’s also Sherlock’s come oozing out and slipping down his thighs. “Hey,” he says a moment later. “I think we could both do with a shower before round two. What do you say?” 

Sherlock’s smile comes with a dangerous light in his eyes. “If we shower together, that will _be_ round two.”

“Better not, because what I have in mind would be a lot more comfortable here in bed. And I’m feeling a touch – well, sticky. Cleanliness would also help.” John feels his lip twist a little as he admits this, but they know each other far too well to bother tiptoeing around this sort of thing by now. “Tell you what,” he proposes. “You decide what you want to eat, order enough for both of us and I’ll shower, and by the time you’re done that, I’ll get out and you can hop in, and then our food will come and we can eat in bed.”

Sherlock makes another satisfied sound. “Okay,” he agrees. “Though I’m not making any promises about finishing dinner. I’m already thinking impatiently about round two.” 

“Oh, so am I,” John promises darkly, and Sherlock gives him a look so smouldering that he nearly changes his mind about the shower to start round two right then and there. He decides against it and decides he really does want to be cleaner than he currently is for the next bit. He kisses Sherlock again quickly and then rolls out of bed and heads for the shower. Under the hot water, he washes himself more thoroughly than possibly ever in his life before. He’s about to turn off the water when Sherlock comes into the loo and steps into the shower with him without a word. He backs John into the side wall and kisses him breathless. John grins at him after and says, with feeling, “Hurry up.”

“I intend to,” Sherlock assures him, his voice low, and John has to force himself to leave the shower and give Sherlock a bit of privacy. John figures that Sherlock must suspect what he wants to try next and if Sherlock wants a moment to prepare himself, John wants to let him have it. 

He gets out and towels himself off, then goes into Sherlock’s bedroom and puts on one of his dressing gowns, the plaid one he’s always liked. He pads into the kitchen to have a look at what they’ve got in for wine. There are two bottles of red standing in the corner of the counter, and a bottle of white in the fridge. He goes back to the bathroom, the door of which is still open. “Sherlock? What did you order?” 

“Sushi,” comes Sherlock’s voice from behind the curtain. He turns off the water and pulls the curtain back, naked and dripping wet, his hands smoothing through his hair. He takes note of John’s eyes staring holes through his skin and grins. “It keeps well and won’t get cold,” he explains, sounding smug. “In case things get interrupted.” 

John nods, eyes still stuck on Sherlock’s glorious body. Suddenly this seems like a _really_ good idea. “Okay,” he says, his voice sounding unfocused and indifferent. “Good. Yeah.” 

Sherlock snickers. “You’re looking at me as if you’ve never seen my body before,” he comments, reaching for a towel and drying his face with it before squeezing out his hair. “And yet we both know that you have, many times now. What’s changed?” 

John goes into the bathroom and puts his hands on Sherlock’s waist, unable to keep from touching him. “Well, _we_ did,” he says, his voice coming out a bit gruff. “I came to my senses, and now we’re this – you’re _mine_. I can’t actually take it in. That this is real. That I get to keep this.”

Sherlock’s smile is small but completely lovely. “Yes,” is all he says, but puts his hand on the back of John’s head and kisses him, John pressing up against his wet chest, not caring that it’s getting the front of the dressing gown damp. 

The doorbell rings and John almost jumps. “I’ll get it,” he says, which is already obvious, as Sherlock’s still nude. He goes into the bedroom to get his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and goes downstairs. The delivery man looks confused when John tries to pay him and has to explain that Mr Holmes already paid by credit card over the phone. John shakes his head – Sherlock already paid for his earlier dinner with Allison, all while watching him from another table and being eaten alive with jealousy at the same time – and adjusts the amount of cash for a tip instead. The driver thanks him and goes, and John takes the food upstairs. Sherlock is still in the loo, humming to himself in his low, resonant voice, so John sets the food down on his dresser and goes to smooth out the blankets over the less-than-immaculate sheets. He is arranging the food on a towel, picnic style, when Sherlock emerges from the bathroom, his towel wrapped around his slim waist. 

“Nice,” he says lightly, looking at the arrangement. 

“You shouldn’t have paid again,” John scolds, knowing that Sherlock will only shrug it off, and he does. 

“I thought it would be easier. Let’s not be boring. There are so many better things to be talking about.” Sherlock takes off the towel and carefully arranges himself on his side around one edge of the food. “Come here,” he says. 

“I’m going to,” John assures him. “Let me just open a bottle of wine. I got distracted there.”

Sherlock chuckles and doesn’t object as John ducks into the kitchen to get one of the bottles of red, a Merlot, as it turns out. White goes better with sushi, but red is more sensuous. He gets two glasses and carries everything back to the bedroom, uncorks the bottle with the attachment on Sherlock’s Swiss army knife, which was lying on the dresser, and pours two glasses. “I won’t even say anything about letting it breathe,” Sherlock says, a hint of smirk in his tone. 

“Good,” John retorts, grinning, and brings him a glass before cautiously getting himself onto the bed without spilling his own. 

Sherlock has already emptied a few packets of soy sauce into the disposable dish that came with the food. They start eating and the sushi is delicious and John is reminded that he was actually hungry, after all. Sherlock is eating but clearly thinking about something else. “So,” he says, dipping a slice of avocado roll into the soy sauce, “what does round two entail?”

“Well, nothing without your explicit and enthusiastic agreement,” John points out. He rearranges his chopsticks in his fingers and goes for a piece of tamago. “Let’s be clear about that. Because…” He hesitates, not exactly sure how he wants to word this. It does need careful wording. He looks up and finds that Sherlock is watching him, his posture not exactly wary, just waiting. John takes a breath. “It’s just – I know what I’d like to try next, but I don’t want to – I don’t want it to bring back any – ”

“Unpleasant memories?” Sherlock suggests, his lip twisting slightly. 

“Yeah,” John says. “Exactly.” 

For a moment Sherlock doesn’t answer, his eyes focused on the sushi between them. Then he says quietly, “Not possible.”

“But – you get what I mean,” John says. “If I – if I’m inside you this time, I don’t want it to – you know, trigger anything. And I don’t want to hurt you. I would do my best not to, of course, and I know it was a long time ago, but these things can stick with a person.” 

“I’m aware,” Sherlock says dryly. He picks up another roll piece but just holds it there between his chopsticks, considering his words carefully. He looks so young with his eyes looking down, the fullness of his lips seeming exaggerated at this particular angle. “Would it help if I were to tell you that I never found it particularly traumatic?” he asks. “Because the only reason I would want to avoid doing that with you is my concern that you would worry during it, and that’s the last thing I want.”

“But – ” John starts, objecting, but Sherlock overrides him. 

“No. I mean it. You asking me every three seconds if I’m all right, or worrying about it so loudly inside your head that the entire neighbourhood can hear it would absolutely kill the mood,” he says firmly. “If you’re going to penetrate me, I want you to be absolutely gasping with lust for me, not concern. I want you to be so far gone that all you can think about is how badly you need to be inside me. That’s what I want. And I do want that. I’ve wanted it for some time.”

Despite himself, John feels the corners of his lips tug a bit at this. “Really?” 

Sherlock smirks. “Since the first time you put your finger in my arse in the shower. It was a bit surprising, at the time.” 

He doesn’t elaborate and doesn’t need to; John remembers his reaction _quite_ well. “For both of us,” he says. “I don’t think I’d heard you get that loud before that.” Sherlock smirks again but John presses on, turning serious again. “If you’re sure, then. It’s just that I would rather not have it be the elephant in the room, something that we’re both thinking about and never addressing.” 

“John,” Sherlock says patiently, arranging a bit of wasabi on top of a shrimp roll, “you couldn’t remind me of him if you tried. I don’t even remember what it was like, particularly. Dry. Rough. Unpleasant, but not traumatic. And over fairly quickly, at least. Nothing you and I have done has been anything like that whatsoever, so please. Just leave it. Let _me_ forget it.”

This last puts a whole different light on it. John nods immediately, understanding. “Got it,” he says. “Then – good. We’re done with that, then.” 

“Good,” Sherlock says. His eyes slide down to John’s crotch. “You’re getting hard thinking about it,” he observes, his eyes narrowing bluely and glinting. 

John looks down and sees that it’s true. “So it would seem,” he says, then looks over at Sherlock. “And so are you.” 

Sherlock smiles, turns onto his back, propping himself up with his elbows, then places a piece of shrimp roll (which he knows is John’s favourite) on his lower abdomen. “Eat this,” he says, his tone turning languid and lazy and immensely arousing all at once. 

John can tell that Sherlock has already lost interest in eating. He grins, gets up and puts the dish of soy sauce and the sushi on the dresser, then moves the towel and spreads himself out on his front next to Sherlock. He breathes on Sherlock’s skin before picking up the roll with his teeth and Sherlock’s erection picks up speed visibly. He chews and swallows it, then licks at a drop of soy sauce left behind on Sherlock’s. Sherlock makes a small sound as he exhales, and John continues licking his lower belly, dipping his tongue into Sherlock’s navel and kissing it. Instead of going lower, he moves up Sherlock’s body, kissing a trail to his right nipple and tracing it with the very tip of his tongue until it peaks, then pressing the flat of his tongue into it. He gets his legs astride Sherlock and bends to repeat the process with his left nipple. 

Sherlock is quivering beneath him, his very nervous system practically jumping through his skin as John caresses it with his tongue and lips and hands. Neither of them are speaking – John’s mouth is somewhat occupied – but Sherlock is making those same breathy sounds, half-caught in his throat. His hands are on John’s thighs, his thumbs rubbing lightly. “You never did this before,” he says, as John lets his teeth graze his nipple now, and Sherlock shivers even as he speaks. 

“Hmm?” John isn’t quite sure what he means, and is distracted in any case. 

“Before,” Sherlock says again, vaguely, his hands moving up to John’s sides. “When you described your preferred method of fellatio, that day in the kitchen. Hypothetical though it was. When you brought me to orgasm without laying a finger on me.”

If Sherlock is still coming out with concepts like _hypothetical fellatio_ , then he isn’t doing enough to distract him, John thinks first, then corrects himself. (Idiot, this is important. Listen to him.) “No,” he agrees, sliding up and pushing Sherlock’s arms up over his head and doing the thing he’s been tempted to do since their second time together, burying his face in the fine, auburn hair of Sherlock’s armpit. It’s barely had time to collect any of Sherlock’s scent since his shower, but there’s a trace of it and John drinks it in, laving his tongue over it. His cock is rubbing against Sherlock’s in an even more intimate embrace, their stomachs touching and contracting against each other’s as they breathe. Of course Sherlock feels the difference. “Before, it was just sex for convenience, or so we were saying on the surface,” John says, and kisses Sherlock’s neck, nips at his earlobe. “This, on the other hand, is what people traditionally call making love.”

Sherlock swallows audibly, his lips parting, eyes closed. “It makes me feel so – ”

John lifts his head to look down at him. “So – what?” he asks gently. Sherlock talking about his feelings is a new concept, indeed, and he doesn’t want to do him the discourtesy of failing to listen properly the first time he does so in a context like this, naked and intimate and, he probably feels, laid out for John to see in entirety. 

“So much,” Sherlock says, opening his eyes. “It’s almost – overwhelming. The way you touch me makes me feel… revered, almost.” His eyes are on John’s. “Does that – is that stupid?” 

“No,” John says, a bit gruffly. “Not stupid at all. I’m glad it feels like that, because it _is_ that. I’m trying to physicalise what I feel for you. I want you to not just know it in that big, powerful, amazing brain of yours, but also to feel it in every skin cell, every pore of your body, every hair. That you’re mine, and I’m yours.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says intensely, looking up into his eyes, and John lowers his head to put his mouth on Sherlock’s. They kiss and kiss and rub against each other, Sherlock’s hands on his arse, their thighs flexing and releasing as they move together. 

John breaks the kiss off to kiss Sherlock’s chin and throat, the hollow just beneath. He squeezes his rib cage with his hands and licks his nipples again, first one side, then the other. This time he passes by Sherlock’s cock and turns his face to caress his balls with the flat of his tongue and his lips, and Sherlock’s legs jerk and shiver. John places an open-mouthed kiss on the head of Sherlock’s cock at last and Sherlock exhales in a gust as John’s tongue encircles it and sucks. He lets Sherlock bask in this for a moment or two, then releases him. “Pull your legs up,” he says. Sherlock draws his knees up to his chest and makes a questioning sound. “Yeah, like that. Hold them there. Exactly like that, good!” 

Sherlock’s hands are pinned between his thighs and his calves, his legs splayed to either side. “I feel a bit silly,” he says, sounding self-conscious. 

John kisses his balls again, one at a time, and says, “You have rarely looked more beautiful to me than you do right now.” He spares Sherlock having to think of how to respond to this by sliding his hands underneath Sherlock to angle his pelvis up a bit, then slowly laves his tongue directly over Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock makes a strangled sort of gasp but doesn’t object. John knows he doesn’t want to be asked if he’s all right, so he doesn’t. He does it again, lingering there and pushing inside a bit, experimentally. Above him, he can hear Sherlock breathing hard. He gives another lick, then another. “How does it feel?” he asks, curious. 

He hears Sherlock swallow. “Good,” he says, a bit hoarsely. And then, “Would it be – easier if I turned over?” 

“Maybe, yeah,” John says, feeling secretly pleased that Sherlock isn’t objecting to this, despite feeling slightly self-conscious about it. It _must_ feel good, then. “Get on your knees, then, but keep your face down.” His hands are already on Sherlock, helping him turn, and it _is_ easier this way. Kneeling behind him, John puts his hands on Sherlock’s arse to spread it as far as possible and buries his face there, licking hungrily, tongue stabbing inside, and Sherlock begins to make shallow, desperate noises after only a minute or two, pushing back against John’s face. His desperation has got John’s cock harder than rock. John reaches around to touch Sherlock’s cock and finds it in the same state. A violent tremor shudders down his back and he feels a warmth of precome leak from his cock. He puts two fingers into Sherlock and finds that they fit easily already, his body already open from John’s mouth. “The lube,” John says, only just barely articulate through the heady arousal filling his brain like a cloud. 

Sherlock’s fingers scrabble for it and he shoves it blindly behind him into John’s waiting hand. “Please,” he says, his voice lower and rougher than John’s heard it before. 

John rubs a generous amount of it onto himself, then slicks up his fingers and goes back in. Sherlock writhes at his touch, thrusting back onto his fingers and John nearly dies in an implosion of lust at the sheer amount of _want_ , of the level of Sherlock’s arousal that he doesn’t care about appearances, that it’s only about need now. And they both need it, that’s certain. John rubs his cock back and forth in the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and over his balls and Sherlock bucks and gasps. 

“You tease!” he complains, albeit breathlessly. “Are you going to make me beg? Because I will: John Hamish Watson, if you care about me at all, kindly fuck me now, _please!_ ” 

“Shit,” John says weakly, and it’s as though his body is moving autonomously. He is utterly incapable of holding himself back, as though his body is wired to Sherlock’s voice. His fist is around his cock, positioning it, and then with a gut-deep moan on both their parts, he pushes fully inside Sherlock with one long thrust. It feels like nothing he’s ever felt before. He doesn’t want to think about sex with anyone else, but this is tighter in comparison; there’s less give. Sherlock’s body is gripping and squeezing around him and John’s eyes are watering with the effort not to lose his load right then and there. Tremors are running the length of Sherlock’s spine, but John thinks again that Sherlock explicitly said that he didn’t want John to ruin this by worrying. He is going to have to trust that Sherlock will say something if he is uncomfortable, then. He pulls back an inch or two, then thrusts in again, for the sheer pleasure of feeling that connection again, of the iridescent sensation of the friction between their bodies, shivering along the length of his cock. He can hear himself panting. He bends over Sherlock so that they’re connected front-to-back, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s chest and pressing kisses into his spine. “Good?” he asks, lust making his voice come out rough. 

Sherlock doesn’t try to mask it. “Intensely,” he says, his voice sounding almost pained. “Keep going!” 

John exhales deeply and does as he’s bidden, pulling out again to start thrusting in a regular rhythm. He was already so turned on before this started that it’s really not going to take very long this time, but judging from the sounds Sherlock is making, it won’t for him, either. John is panting and moaning and Sherlock’s deep voice is moaning in tandem with him, both of them too far gone for words. John is still wrapped around Sherlock like an octopus, only his hips and arse moving as he pumps as deeply into Sherlock’s body as he can go. He reaches down for Sherlock’s cock and begins to stroke it as he thrusts, his hips speeding up. He’s going to come in a less than twenty seconds now and wants to make sure that Sherlock gets there first. He’s plunging wildly into him now, his fist practically yanking at Sherlock’s cock, and then Sherlock’s entire body spasms, his arse clenching and squeezing around John’s cock as he comes, his cock jerking in John’s hand. The clenching sends John completely over the edge and he hears himself making rather a lot of noise as he slams into Sherlock, every nerve in his body alight and sparking and then his hearing dims and his body stiffens and he comes feeling like a dam unleashed, his come soaking into Sherlock’s body in jets of thick release. 

When he’s finally spent, his body is shivering and trembling with aftershocks. It was the most powerful orgasm he’s ever had, second only to the one he just had earlier. Beneath him, Sherlock weakly lowers them both to the mattress on their sides, John still buried in him, still moving in him, his hand still curled around Sherlock’s cock, sticky with his release. He lets go and presses his hand into Sherlock’s thundering heart, kissing the back of his neck loosely, panting and still seeing stars. 

“I think we have a winner,” Sherlock pants after a few minutes, his breath coming hard. He puts his hand on John’s, interlocking their fingers. 

“Do you think so?” John’s words slur together; he is so entirely, deliciously sated that he can barely speak. 

“Definitely. That was the best thing I’ve ever experienced in my life,” Sherlock says. It sounds as though his eyes are closed. 

John thinks about this for a moment and feels incredibly moved that Sherlock’s favourite thing so far is the thing that put him off sex all his life until their arrangement started. “Well, _that’s_ going to do wonders for my ego,” he murmurs, his own eyes closing. 

“I liked it the other way, too. A lot. But this is definitely the best.” Sherlock sounds drowsy. “John?”

“Mmm?” John presses his nose and mouth into the nape of Sherlock’s neck again. 

“Don’t pull out,” Sherlock requests. He sounds as though he’s half-asleep already. “Just – stay there. This is the best I’ve ever felt and I don’t want it to end. Can we just sleep like this, with you inside me?” 

“Mm-hm.” They’re still on top of the blankets, but John reaches back to pull the edge up and over them, then puts his arm tightly around Sherlock again. “I feel the same way. I don’t want it to end. Ever.”

There’s a small silence and then Sherlock repeats, sounding slightly more awake, “Ever?” 

“Ever,” John confirms. “Promise.” He kisses Sherlock’s neck one last night. “Go to sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.” 

Sherlock makes an extremely contented sound. “Okay,” he says, and he does. 

John manages to stay awake for all of a minute longer, but the last thing he consciously thinks before dropping off, himself, is, _Yes._ Nothing more than that, but then, nothing more could possibly be needed. Just this: Yes. 

*


End file.
